The Lie
by Eva Galana
Summary: Her faith had ever been strong, fears lain down at the feet of The Bride. Now she struggles w/her belief in the Maker, His Bride, & the Circle itself. And wonders which was the lie…My entry to BioWare's Asunder contest


_The Lie_

Cringing, the young mage's head ducked slightly into her shoulders, her long, slender hands clasped before her. Sparkling blue eyes gazed up with adoration into the calm, serene features of the stone idol depicting Andraste. The Prophet stood, gazing down upon the young mage, as she always had, giving the girl Her strength, calm and resolve. The young girl had, long ago, convinced herself she could feel the Prophet's love bore down upon her head, cursed as she was.

Slowly her eyes closed in an attempt to shut out the sounds resounding from beyond the small chantry, thin lips moving in prayer as she gave voice to her fears and hopes upwards to the Maker and His Bride.

Never had the girl believed, truly, that mages were a curse, a mistake of the Maker's. The Maker was perfect, and in His perfection, no mistake could ever be made. Truly, it was Man's willful disobedience that had brought about the enslavement of others at the hands of the Magisters. And the Maker had proven His love, yet again, with His love for Andraste, in giving Her His presence and power to bring down the vile blood mages. It had been Man's self-proclaiming that they were the true gods, the rulers of all they surveyed that brought about the destruction – the blackening – of His Golden City.

Why else would He turn His back upon His children, when they so often disappointed and disobeyed their Father?

And so she knelt here, at this time of great turmoil, head bowed as she gave obeisance to His Bride.

Harried footsteps could be heard from the outer corridors, and the girl lifted her head, staring at the barricade she had placed – struggling, pulling, and gasping as she took to physical labor she had never had to perform her entire life. Her arms and shoulders still felt the sting of the labor. The doors were strong – heavy wood and iron bound. However, this was a Circle, and within such a place the only doors with locks were those for the Templars. Even the tiny Chantry's door – a room so many of the holy warriors believed the mages had no right access to – held no locks.

She hoped they would hold.

Of what was happening beyond the Gallows, she had heard only snippets before turning and seeking out the familiar comfort of this room. Snippets spilled from the lips of anxious and fearful senior enchanters, describing a great devastation at the Chantry. Their voices had been full of fear and disbelief, anxiety and loathing. Loathing for the one who had caused the trouble; loathing now for the call from the Knight-Commander herself that the entirety of the Circle would be annulled. Annulled in answer to the careless and violent action of one who was not from the Circle.

She swallowed in a thick throat, striving to ignore the shouts and screams – still so very far from where she knelt, but not nearly far enough – as she struggled with her prayers. They had to be lies. Why would they – mages loyal to the Circle, who did as they were told, did as the Maker Himself had decreed through the voice of His Bride – suffer for the actions of one who was not even a mage?

No, that wasn't right. She blinked, her face scrunching as she strove to recall the jumbled words spoken earlier. Her thoughts moved from her prayers back to the words of the other mages. He – yes, he had been a mage, but not from Kirkwall, not from their Circle.

They were being punished for the actions of a mage from another Circle?

She stopped, looking back up into Andraste's face, blinking in disbelief. Their Circle was being annulled for the actions of another mage? From…another…Circle?

Trembling, she pushed herself to her feet, her knees aching from the hours of kneeling, her neck stiff from bowing for far too long before the idol.

Surely, that was wrong. She had heard incorrectly. Those innocent blue eyes fixed once again upon that stature – the very statue that had been standing since she had arrived as a very small child. She had recalled the nice Templar – Emeric – who had brought her to this place. He had found her, tucked into a corner, crying, lonely and missing her family with all the anguish a five year old girl could. She recalled his kind smile and how he had led her, hand in hand, to this spot, telling her that whenever she felt alone or scared, this was where she could lay all of her fears and loneliness…at the feet of Andraste.

She had believed him. Trusted him. And as the years went by, the young mage had continued to come to this one small room, laying her fears and loneliness here, at the Bride's feet.

Not all of the Templars were men of peace and calm as were Ser Emeric. The small smile of remembrance vanished instantly as her thoughts were directed, involuntarily, to Templars like Ser Alrik. Alrik, with his cold blue eyes, nasty smirk and cold hands.

Cold hands…

On shaking legs, she stumbled to the statue, falling to her knees with a small cry. Which of the Templars was the truth of the order? Which the lie?

Hands trembling, the sounds of battle so much closer and more dire, the young mage bent her head once again, trying to find her peace to her prayers. However, other voices, other thoughts began to form in her mind, and she shook her head, trying to keep clear, trying to push her fear down as she had been taught.

But the voices became louder, more insistent, as the fear within her breast grew, and the sounds of death and the dying beyond the small Chantry's doors great louder and nearer.

What was the lie?

She lifted her face, staring up into the cold, calm features of a woman long dead, long at the side of the Maker. Her thoughts went to the Chant, to the words that had ever guided her life, her role in life, and how all like her would ever be perceived.

_Magic was made to serve man, not rule over him._

These words had ever been her guide. But, what if they were a lie?

What if…?

She rose as new thoughts came to her, and a small frown formed on her pretty face. How could the Maker make an error, a mistake? If mages were a curse, something the Maker Himself abhorred, why, then, were there mages? She raised her face again, taking in the cold stare and the soft smirk etched upon the Bride's features. Stunned by her new perception of the graceful statue, she backed away, one slender hand to her lips as she stares.

Blood magic was wrong. Maleficarum evil. Her eyes shut tight as though to block out the visions that rose as the screams of those mages dying, just beyond her door, rose to her ears. Those within the Circle…they were not blood mages. Many were simple alchemists, craftsmen whose crafts were sold at the Gallows' courtyard, the coin raised going directly into the coffers of the Chantry.

Shaking, she stumbled back. There were many spirit healers within this Circle. She had always been considered a gifted healer, her services lent out whenever the need arose.

Again, the coin earned by her skills enriching the Church that kept her behind the cold, impersonal walls of the Gallows.

Where once slaves of another sort were kept.

Her brow furrowed at that thought. Thoughts that had been part of her during her childhood, when she had once railed against her confinement within the Gallows. However, she had long since outgrown such defiance, and was a model mage.

But now…it all seemed such a lie, made more pronounced by the continued screams of the dying mages and the shouting of the Templars.

A heavy force slammed against the exterior of her door, causing it to shudder, and she jumped, spinning to face the aperture. Again the door rattled as another strike against it sounded, and she instinctively backed away, watching as the wood started to splinter beneath the blows.

Voices, so close, rose; commands were issued to bring down the door. Grunts of exertion answered each command as the men on the other side slammed bodies or other tools against the door, seeking to rend it from its hinges, and get to the mage just behind it.

The furniture she had struggled so hard to drag before the door scraped against the stone floor, the screeching sending shivers up her spine. Taking a deep breath, pushing thought aside, she knelt once more before the statue, head bent, hands clasped in a picture of piety.

And still those voices, the ramming and scraping and splintering continued as the armed and armored men just beyond fought against the door and the obstacles to get to the one, scared little girl just beyond.

New voices joined in the chorus, only these could only be heard by the girl herself, and she shook herself against the taunting and teasing, the promises of the demons from the Fade that, no doubt, could feel her fear. They offered her freedom, her life, a means to seek vengeance against those who now sought her life.

Simply for the fact of having been born a mage.

Shaking her head violently, she forced the voices back, recognizing them, too, as the lie they were.

All around, nothing but lies.

No, she did not wish to die. Not…not like this. She wanted to live, to continue to practice her magic, magic that she had never been able to view as a curse, for the blessing of life and healing that it brought. How could she possibly see her gift as a curse when no harm came from its use?

Another lie…

Another…

Blue eyes opened, but did not rise to stare into the face of one she knew so very well. Magic was not a curse. Nor were mages a mistake of the Maker's.

Those words…

Just another means of enslaving a people.

Blonde head tilted slightly at that thought, wondering if her thoughts were her own or the whispered words of the demons. She glanced to the door, taking note how damaged it was, even as she had managed to block out the continued shouts and attacks upon the door. She watched as the door shuddered and then started lurching open, the men beyond pushing against the heavy furnishings the small mage had put up as an obstacle.

Shrieking and scraping across the stone, the door slowly opened, the barrier forcibly pushed back to allow an opening for the Templars to gain access into the tiny room.

And she remained upon her knees, kneeling before the statue of Andraste, as the last obstacle was shoved away, and the Templars entered the room.

Her thoughts were filled with the Chant, her heart with fear. Words were being whispered from the Fade, offering protection, reminding her that what was happening was not right. She understood the source, and found herself wondering how it could possibly be wrong to want to protect herself.

Now she raised her head, staring at the well-armed and armored men who stood in a line before the door, staring at the young mage with astonished disbelief as they took in her kneeling position, yet calm face.

Swords and shields were raised, and many did not wear their helmets. That was strange, she thought as she started to rise, her hand tucked into the voluminous sleeves of the enchanter's robe she had been so very proud of. Why were they not wearing their helmets…?

"Surrender and we will make your death quick and painless," said one young Templar, a man she had seen but never spoken with, bit out between tight lips.

Standing straight now, she tilted her head, staring at the Templars, astonished that so many blades would be needed against one, small mage such as her. A small frown formed, turning her lips downward as she pulled her hand free, tugging the tiny knife free from the folds of her robe.

The Templars spotted the knife, and gasped as one as she drove the blade into her arm. With a shout, they moved forward, toward the young girl as the air filled with the fog of misty blood, and dark chuckling could be heard from the air itself.

It was all a lie…


End file.
